You can't go back 
April 27, 2020

Once upon a time long ago, we had a most wondrous adventure.  It was a casual Easter weekend campout that played out as one of those idyllic experiences that come along now and then, unexpectedly and with the most sublime unfoldings.

Dad was joining the Hastings clan at Burro Creek and we tagged along with our friends Casey & George.  Although we had never been there, we were always up for an excursion; how better to spend time than under the wide open skies with friends and family.

Everything about the three days was perfection (well, there was that one issue about sleeping on the ground, but the stony bed surface reality fades with remembering).  We explored, we talked, we hiked, we ate, we swam and we were in wonder at the many changing faces of Mother Earth.

There was that beaver dam - a huge structure that reached from bank to bank and that was plenty sturdy enough for me to cross the creek by walking on it, which of course I did.  The water flow was so high that it ran at least ankle deep over the high dam.

And there was that extensive water-sculpted rock section.  We all had a blast cavorting across that surface into and out of its many water pockets and being amazed at the places where the stream divided itself to find routes through and around, dropping over sheer falls into pools perfect for swimming.

That's Dad below studying the situation . . . he never failed to be a participant, no matter what was going on.  Spectating was not in his vocabulary.

No matter that we had not thought to bring swimming attire - at least Dad & I responded to the water's invitation.  I learned my lesson well from my parents; where adventure is concerned: go for it.

By now, it should be easy to understand why I would want to return to the scene of the idyll.  Alas, that weekend reigns serenely in my memory banks, but of course it cannot be re-created.  Chris later utilized Google Earth to find that magical rock area is now fenced off and posted.  And of course the beaver dam was toast after one of the massive floods went through.

No matter, we (actually, the map-perusing señor) located a route to return to that region without risking life & limb on crazed non-roads whereon he declares, "Ruby can do it", and whereon I cling to anything that I think will give me the highest chance of survival in the event of a rollover or even a drop off a cliff.

Adhering to social distancing guidelines, albeit with increasing frustration, we made it a double date, again with Gail & Normand.  Our destination was the Burro Creek Crossing Road, more or less three hours distant, so it's easy to see why any distraction along the way would be welcome.

We stop at Nothing . . .

. . . if for no other reason than to stretch our legs as we propelled along on State Route 93.  That metropolis never thrived, but did exist from 1977 until at least 2005, when all four of its inhabitants inhabited elsewhere.  As we pulled up, Chris made the astute comment that the place used to be open.  Be that as it may, it is most assuredly closed now.

Next stop was the Burro Creek campground, located near the highway at a spot where the water is pooled up and still. 

 

 I was mighty impressed with the beautifully crafted rock steps and sides that led down to the water.

 

Not quite there yet, we turned back on to the highway to cross over Burro Creek on a massive structure that spans the deep and steep canyon . . .

 . . . with a thought to return to explore the intriguing Kaiser Springs Canyon.

Heading down . . .

We finally gained the dirt road that would take us into the depths of that twisted amazing land.  Only 14 miles, we were informed, to the creek itself.  That seemed a little daunting given the three hours we had already traveled and given the road condition.  Actually, as back roads go, it wasn't bad at all, just dusty and washboardy.

But oh, the scenes around us were incredibly awesome; we made stop after stop to admire and photograph.  The vastness is impossible to convey; as a counterpoint to the wide openness, there were many instances of up-close feasts for the eyes.

There are Gail & Normand about to round the bend behind us.

One particular mountain seemed to be the long-lost twin of our Thumb Butte in Prescott.

One section was interesting for more than its visual beauty: the Clay Hills, we were notified by signage, are an "area of critical environmental concern".  We didn't know just what that concern entailed until we returned home and did a bit of sleuthing.

More than one thousand acres there have been designated as crucial habitat for the endangered Arizona cliffrose (Purshia subintegra), not to be confused with the more common cliffrose (Purshia mexicana) that grows in profusion in many areas, also not to be confused with the name of the development in which I reside.  The Arizona cliffrose population has decreased due to having only small localized habitats that have been impacted by a number of factors, including mining, road construction, off-road traffic and livestock grazing.

We were careful not to run off the road and over any of the endangered plants lest they feel more threatened as we continued on our way through stupendous and amazing landscapes, eventually finding ourselves in the Burro Creek bottomlands, punctuated by green mounds of cottonwood treetops.

The place is, after all, Burro Creek, so we were disappointed that for the entirety of that long drive, we had seen nary one burro despite copious evidence of their presence by droppings along the road.

But finally, near the creek, we came upon a small bunch of those delightful creatures; the bonus was the one furry baby with them.

The herd eyed us with curiosity but no alarm as they moved through the thick chapparal.

There we were in the bottomland but still faced with numerous anonymous winding dirt tracks that might or might not take us to the water we sought.  One seemed no more likely than another, so we flipped a coin and set off. 

It was only a short spell before we were met with a few fellers on their way out . . . and they were carrying kayaks atop their vehicle!  How bizarre it was after all those miles of desert to be approaching a small creek, certainly nothing we had expected to be navigable, and to encounter kayakers!  I flagged them down for a little chat about routes and creek conditions; take the left fork, etc., etc., they advised.  By following their directions, we were rewarded with arriving at an extensive refreshing pool, and certainly a long section that would be lovely for kayaking.  Unfortunately, the shoreline had been scoured out by floods on our side; there was one lone cottonwood on the grassy opposite bank.

Hunger pangs signalled lunch time, so we pulled up a rock and enjoyed a meal creekside.

At least one of us was unable to resist the water's allure: I cooled off some, but regret that I didn't take a dip in the deeper spot.

A kildeer was highly agitated about our presence and made his displeasure known by vocalizing at us long and loudly.  I suspect he had a nest nearby.  There he is in the photo below; it's amazing how he blends in so that even when I could tell by his badgering exactly where he was, I sometimes couldn't spot him.

It was obvious from the scattered ruins and foundations that the site had once been a homestead.  Surprisingly, once I saw the buildings, I remembered them from our previous visit 20 years before.  As they say, sometimes what I had for breakfast is a tad blurry, but boy howdy, nondescript ruins are clear as can be.

That section of Burro Creek is really too distant to be a very viable day trip; camping in the area allows time for being and enjoying.  We did explore one other track that took us to a more pleasant shoreline, but too late in the day to relax into a siesta at water's edge, a most enchanting thought.

I bemoaned the dearth of burro sightings all the way down into the canyon, but we certainly were rewarded with a plethora of the long-eared animals on our way out.  They are accustomed enough to people that they allow a fairly close approach, always keeping a curious eye out, though.  When all was said and done, we spotted 27 burros.

We enjoyed a final stop at the place the road is named for: Burro Creek Crossing.  There, too, we saw additional evidence of huge flooding with debris high up in what trees were left standing and soil scoured away from large swaths of river rubble.  The creek there is shallow and easy to ford.

As we tackled the drive out - somehow it was still 14 miles of dirt road - the scenario was similar to the ingress: stop after stop to admire the vast views and up-close sights, too.

I'm happy that we had an eye out on the road surface, also; we spied a snake stretched out that appeared to have been hurt or run over.  We made that judgment based on its inactivity.  It was not of an ilk that we were familiar with.  The reptile scarcely moved, even at our approach and prodding, just mostly extended its head forward and back.  It became clear that it was not injured, but was exceedingly slow to move.  Its vertical tan and rust stripes and shimmery scales were quite beautiful.

We learned later that it was a rosy boa, one of only two species of boas native to the United States.  Its habitat is the American Southwest and Mexico.  Because of its extreme slowness, the rosy boa spends most of its time concealed under rocks, preferring granite.  It is one of the slowest-moving species of snakes in the world; because of that, it is not able to pursue prey.  It must wait in ambush or stalk its food.  Wikipedia tells us that "When a meal is within reach, usually a few inches, a rosy boa strikes with surprising speed and accuracy. Prey is secured with tiny rows of needle-sharp teeth, then suffocated through constriction."

We insured that it was safely off the road before proceeding.  Another stop was for a rattlesnake across our route.  No slothfulness there - we had barely time to leap out for a quick photograph as that one disappeared into a hidey-hole.